Safe
by nachalainne
Summary: Greg Lestrade, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, reminds his introverted and library-loving friend, Sherlock Holmes, that some things must be experienced, rather than simply observed.


"It's hot."

"So take your robe off." Greg didn't look up from his stretches as he answered Sherlock.

"I'll burn. The sun is too bright."

"Well, then I guess you'll just have to deal with it, won't you?"

Sherlock pouted. He didn't like being out of doors; not even to watch Lestrade fly. If anything, it was boring — a boy on a broomstick, just zooming around in the air? There was nothing thought-provoking in that, nothing to think about.

But it was oddly mesmerising, and he wasn't entirely sure why. He glanced over at the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, eyeing the curve of his back as the other boy reached down to touch his toes. Greg was very serious about two things: Quidditch and Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had another year to make a decision about his future, and decide which would be his career — but for the time being, the Gryffindor seemed quite content to do both, and as often as he could manage.

"Or I could go back inside, to the library. Where it's cool, and dark, and interesting."

Greg paused, twisting just enough to look back over his shoulder at his dark-haired companion. "Alright, go on then."

Sherlock didn't move.

"Seriously, I'm not stopping you." He could hardly keep the smirk off his face.

Sherlock's pout — a typical facial expression for him — deepened significantly. Still, he stayed put.

"I thought as much." Standing up, Greg brushed grass from his trousers and picked up his broomstick. "You know… you could always come with me."

The Slytherin boy scoffed. "On a broomstick? Never."

"Come on, Sherlock. You can't be afraid of flying forever."

"I am not afraid of flying."

Greg could have rolled his eyes. "What is it then?"

Sherlock curled up, wrapping his black robes around himself, rather like a protective blanket. He'd found a comfortable spot in the shadow of one of the stadium's towers, but it didn't stop him from behaving as though the sun was out to destroy him. "It's pointless."

"How would you know? You've never flown before."

"I don't have to. I've observed."

Lestrade walked over to him, and leaned down. "What have I told you about relying on your eyes to teach you everything?" He asked quietly.

Sherlock refused to look up, adopting the appearance of a petulant child. Greg found it adorable, there was no denying.

"Come here," he coaxed, reaching down and taking the younger boy by the arm. Greg pulled him up off the ground as though he weighed no more than a piece of parchment, and dotingly straightened his uniform.

Sherlock tried to remain indignant, but it was obvious from the subtle glances in Greg's direction that the Gryffindor's loving attention was having an effect on his sour mood.

Greg moved his hand to Sherlock's mouth, gently brushing his thumb over the other boy's lips. "I thought you'd learned that some things are worth feeling, rather than seeing? Or do you need me to teach that particular lesson again?"

Sherlock's cheeks reddened. "Brooms aren't … comfortable," he finished lamely. He was far too proud to ever admit that he thought brooms were unsafe. He was Sherlock Holmes! He risked life and limb constantly in search of the best possible spell, or the most difficult-to-obtain potion ingredients. Broomsticks were hardly a hazard when compared to some of the darker magic he'd attempted in his life.

While he was musing over his own fears, Greg had shifted, moving behind Sherlock and wrapping both arms around him. His broom, a sleek and polished piece of oak, floated horizontally in front of them. "Trust me?" He murmured, mouth pressed lightly against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock froze, his breath catching in his throat. It took several seconds (a ridiculously long amount of time for him) for his mouth to catch up with the words and emotions rocketing around in his head.

"Never," he muttered dryly. He did, of course, but it would have been easier to admit he was afraid of flying than to say that, even to Lestrade.

Thankfully, the Quidditch captain knew the Slytherin boy well enough to correctly interpret his sarcasm.

"Just close your eyes," he whispered quietly, and lifted Sherlock up.

Before the younger boy knew it, they were both settled on the broomstick and soaring into the air. Sherlock grabbed the handle, clinging desperately — though, he needn't have bothered. He was tucked carefully (and quite comfortably) against Greg's warm body. The Gryffindor's arms encircled him as he effortlessly guided the broom through the air, and despite all of Sherlock's fears — his understanding of gravity and the effectiveness of braking charms, of sudden gusts of wind and the instability of flight mechanics and momentum — he felt safe.


End file.
